Love the Way You Lie
by Cae Thomas aka CNL
Summary: But you'll always be my hero, even though you've lost your mind.    Warnings for abuse.  Inspired by Rhianna's "Love the Way You Lie, pt 2"


On the first page of our story, the future seemed so bright. We were madly in love, just out of Hogwarts, and on the brink of a whole new life in a world free from Voldemort's tyranny. We moved in together, a small one bedroom flat in London. It wasn't much, but it was enough for us. You entered the Auror training program, and I went to work for an independent potions research facility. We were together, we were following our dreams. Everything was perfect.

Then this thing turned out so evil. I don't know why I'm still surprised. You changed. You were no longer the modest, lovable green-eyed boy I'd fallen for. You were moody, dark, brooding. You lost your temper over the smallest of things and took out your frustrations on me. At first it was just rough sex, and I wasn't going to complain because it started out fucking fantastic. And then it grew to more than just that. You would scream at me, push me.

I still remember the first time you hit me. You'd had a bad day at work, and I had as well. Neither of us was in the best mood. It was raining out, and that always seemed to make things worse. I'd asked you how your day went. You'd said you didn't want to talk about it. I went on with telling you about my day. You told me to shut up. I'd frowned and moved to hug you, kiss your cheek. You shoved me away, backhanding me.

And then we'd stood there, the pair of us, in shock at what had happened. I raised a hand to my cheek, feeling the sting and the warmth against my fingertips. Your eyes softened immediately and you rushed forward, wrapping me in your arms and kissing my hair. You just kept repeating how sorry you were and how much you loved me. I'd forgiven you instantly, of course, and reveled in the sweet way you made love to me that night. But that wasn't the last time you hit me.

It got worse over time, but I could never even dream of leaving you. I was too in love, and was blinded by that. I remembered what you were when we'd started out—an angel, really. But even angels have their wicked schemes. People have been using love to their advantage, been manipulating it for years. You've just taken that to new extremes.

No matter the fight, no matter the reason or the rhyme of it, no matter who started it, what it was about, or who was more in the wrong, you come out victorious. Because I can't win against you. Because winning is impossible. And I find that I don't even want it. Because winning would mean leaving. And I can't leave. In this tug of war, you'll _always_ win. Even when I'm right.

You always tell me you love me, especially after the biggest of fights that leave the house in ruins. You'll pull me close, stroke the hair back from my eyes—fingertips often brushing over the newest bruises—and whisper that you're sorry. And then I'll push you away, and we'll start all over again. It's a vicious, never-ending cycle. And no matter what, I always know how it'll end. You tell me I'm beautiful one day, ugly the next. But I stay through it all—the good days and bad, even though the bad have long started to outnumber the good.

Blaise and Pansy know what's going on—Ron and Hermione, too, I expect. They've told me to leave—all of them, at some point over the years. But I always tell them I can't. And that's the truth. I've tried to run. I've packed and unpacked my bags so many times when you were at work, planning to leave and disappear when you're not there to stop me.

I've almost made it to the front door so many times, but I can never get past the hall because that's where our photo hangs—the one of us in Hoggsmeade our seventh year. We're grinning and looking so sickeningly in love that it brings me to tears. I remember all the good, let it overpower the bad, and then I can't do it. I go back and unpack my things, sit on the sofa and wait for you to come home like nothing happened. I try to run, but the truth is that I don't want to ever leave. And I know that the only hope I'll have of escape is if, some day, the flat burns to the ground and I watch the walls go up in smoke with all our memories.

So maybe I'm a masochist for staying, putting up with all of your shit. With all of the pain. With all of the insanity and hell you've put me through over the past six years. It's sick—but true—that all these battles are what keep me satisfied. In a way, it's like what we had in our younger days—only you get in more crippling shots than you ever did back then.

But the truth is that I love you. You were my first love, Harry. My first everything, at that. Maybe I'm just a little too naïve for my own good, but I'm still holding onto the hope that true love exists. That we're all made for someone in particular. I used to think that you were my true love. My soul mate. The truth is, I still do. Every day you break me down to nothing, and though you always put me back together, a little piece gets lost each and every time. And nothing can bring those pieces back because the Harry I knew is gone. I loved him—loved _you_. And now I hate you.

But you'll always be my hero, even though you've lost your mind.


End file.
